Uncle, There's an Eyeball in your Microwave
by daschund
Summary: Emma cannot stand to be in her uncle's flat. Never has and never will. Kid!Emma, Uncle!Sherlock, AU. Taking a break from NaNoWriMo.
1. Chapter 1

Fanfic – Glee x Sherlock (BBC) crossover

'Uncle, There's an Eyeball in your Microwave.'

Summary: Emma cannot stand to be in her uncle's flat. Never has and never will. Kid!Emma, Uncle!Sherlock, AU.

Words: 385

A/N: Takin a little break from NaNo. There'll be more of this, likely in the same shortness form C":

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><p>"Uncle, there's an eyeball in your microwave." Emma's voice was tiny and shaky, and when Sherlock glanced over, she was also a bit pale (as well as tiny and shaky, but being just nine she was always tiny and whenever she was in his flat she was always shaky).<p>

(Granted, she was hardly ever in 221B Baker Street because her parents next to never dropped her off there, especially because of the constant state of mess it was in. John's presence had helped tidy up the place since the last time Emma had been dumped in his lap so to speak, two years or so ago.)

"Yes, yes," he said waving a hand in a preoccupied way. "Leave it there, it's an experiment."

"There's an _eyeball_ in your microwave, uncle!" she repeated, voice climbing both in pitch and volume.

"I know," Sherlock told her. "And I just told you—"

The sound of the door opening caused Sherlock to cut himself off. The time, both present and when John was supposed to get off of work and the number of minutes it took him to get home based on which route he took, and on Fridays he usually took the quicker tube and there'd been no problems on the line today—this all brought Sherlock to the conclusion of this: John was home.

Emma was standing in the archway between the kitchen and the living room with her arms wrapped around herself and trying to look very, very small if Sherlock was a judge of any of that. She was shaking like a leaf in the wind and breathing through her mouth in a panicy sort of way.

So Sherlock jumped up and threw open the door just as John was unlocking it (tearing the key from his head as he'd just turned it in the lock, and now it was dangling from the lock and the door was wide open, leaving John with a hand outstretched and vaguely annoyed expression on his face).

"John, what do you do when a child with OCD starts panicking?"

A worried expression crossed John's features. "Sherlock, what—" He stepped into the flat then, and noticed Emma in the midst of her trying-not-to-freak-out freaking out. He groaned then, "Dear god, Sherlock, who left a child in your care?"


	2. Chapter 2

Words: 256

A/N: nurp nurp nurp. Procrastination is a sure-fire way to winning nanowrimo! ^^

And a huge thank you for the alerts and faves (and review). They make me grin like a mad person o/u/o

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><p>"So, your older brother just randomly's dropped off his daughter? Again? After two years with nothing other than a '<em>just for a couple hours<em>'?"

Sherlock sniffed, "Half brother. And Mycroft's still the oldest."

John groaned as he pushed more clutter from the coffee table, setting down a large mug of tea in front of the nine year old little girl, who sat—shaking and pale and biting her lip determinedly—on the newly sanitized couch.

"There, dear," he told her. "Washed the mug four times for you."

(And this was not just for the little girl's own peace of mind, but for his own as well because god knows what Sherlock had been doing with the mugs; a bout of horrible stomach bug within the first three months of being the man's flat mate taught him as much.)

"Th-thank you," she mumbled and took it carefully. John went to clearing the rest of the coffee table haphazardness, earning a shout from Sherlock (that was an experiment John why in the bloody word did you just toss it like that? It's ruined now I won't be able to keep working on it and it was _important _John) before spritzing the surface with lemon-scented cleaner.

"Look on the bright side," Said John with a sigh and a tight smile to Sherlock as he thrust a kitchen rag into his flailing arms (still going on about that experiment, well, too bad), "at least she's giving us an excuse to clean up the flat. Dear, would you like to help?"


	3. Chapter 3

Words: 432

A/N: Please not that I do not own Sherlock or Glee and both shows are amazing. C: And I have the latest Glee episode waiting to be watched...gnyaahh.

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><p>"It's not clean enough!" squealed the little girl, "and it's where you keep the food so it's got to be, it's got to be really clean!"<p>

John hadn't realized that inviting the child to help clean would result like this. Perhaps he should have paid a bit more attention to Sherlock's frantic miming of throat-slitting when he'd initially made the offer.

"Yes, the food and the severed fingers," John grumped, spraying the fridge's shelf once more and running the rag over it. Sherlock had long ago gone to hide the things he either did not want disturbed or did not want to be found by an OCD nine year old girl, and he hadn't reappeared. John thought this was rather smart of him.

But—at Emma's round eyed look, this hadn't been the smartest thing to grumble. "W-well," she said eventually, "that's—"

"A joke," John hurried to correct, "A joke, I was making a joke, dear." He wondered if he should be referring to her as 'deer' rather than 'dear', just for how many times he'd watched her display that deer-in-the-headlights stare through out the course of the afternoon.

"O-okay," and she went back to polishing the surface of their kitchen table (really, John had only seen the actual of that surface twice in the entire year of living in 221B Baker street, hard to believe.)

Honestly, he had no idea how she was related to Sherlock, not even by a half of a half sibling; they were completely polar opposite. Not to mention her ginger hair (and great, now he was struggling to picture how Sherlock would look with ginger hair rather than scrubbing at the plastic refrigerator shelf. The image didn't quite compute in John's mind, though.)

Emma had managed to plow through—dragging John along with her—and clean about half the living room and nearly a quarter of the kitchen. It wasn't a quick job, either; it had been several hours already, and it was growing later with every scrub of the kitchen rag he was using. Sooner or later, Sherlock's hiding spot would be discovered and the man would be forced to help clean.

John wasn't sure how that would work. He couldn't get the younger man to go do the shopping and couldn't even manage to make him put his toast on a plate when he was in a particular rush; how would this tiny, pale, red-haired little girl manage to make him clean up around the flat? And disinfect things. John betted that would be the sealing factor as to his refusal to help.


	4. Chapter 4

Words: 390

A/N: You all can probably tell by now that I like parenthesis. Do they lessen the quality of the writing, though? I sure hope not. The make me feel like I'm whispering side notes (and going off on tangents) to you readers (":

Also, Emma's parents' names are Rose and Rusty, according to a quick Google search. –shrug- I didn't remember. AH well!

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><p>For a nine year old child, Emma sure could be scary, Sherlock reflected later that evening. He wondered when Rusty would be there to pick up his devil spawn. He needed the child gone from his flat, he needed her cleaning to be undone, and he didn't care if he'd wind up with a lecture on the fact that he and Mycroft hadn't ended up with their father's red hair.<p>

(Sherlock had never had any idea as to why Rusty had gotten the idea that he was better because he had flipping red hair. Sherlock and Mycroft were geniuses, for god's sake, and red hair did. Not. Matter. Perhaps the fact that he'd married a red haired woman with the same idea had reinforced it.)

Sherlock decided that it happened to be a rather good moment to let loose another complaint; before the words managed to escape his throat in a groan, though, John silence him with a, "Sherlock, hold your tongue," And a sharp glare.

John could be scary as well, he reminded himself, and then wondered why exactly his best friend was taking his half-niece's side over his own. Once he prompted John with the desperate need for an answer to this particular problem, several times, John explained that Emma was little and was OCD and that she was only around once or twice a year and Sherlock might as well might try to make her like him, and really, he didn't need to be so much of an arse to a relative, either.

Sherlock didn't see a point. Emma had never liked him and likely never would.

Not to mention she was a child, and even though she was clearly intelligent, she never exercised the fact due to the annoying OCD that she possessed. He paused in his cleaning of a door knob to go over the idea for an experiment in his head to find out just how intelligent his brother's daughter was.

"Okay," said Emma from behind him, sitting carefully on the couch after examining the cushion one last time and deciding it was satisfactory. "Uncle John, may I have something to eat?"

"Of course, dear," said John, coming into the living room from the kitchen. "I believe we have, ah…" he glanced back over his shoulder. "Well, there's some edible crackers."

"Fruit?" Asked Emma.


	5. Chapter 5

Words: 250

A/N: I don't know how long this is going to be-probably end up around eight to ten parts. Yes, I actually do have a bit of a plot planned-though it's nothing dramatic. (Maybe I'll write a more serious fic in this universe sometime, though. How many of you would actually read that?) I passed 50k words on my novel, but it's not done; to celebrate I did some fanfic writing C:

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><p>Sherlock wasn't sure why John had left him to clean the flat with Emma to buy the child some fruit when he'd so clearly failed to 'watch her properly' before John had arrived back home from work.<p>

But he'd taken the opportunity anyway; he was now back to work on his experiment—the one involving the eyeball which had so creeped out Emma before—that he'd had to put on pause to hide, and then to clean.

"Uncle!" Emma was now all but yelling from the steps. "What is this!"

Based on the tone of her voice and the pitch of distress, Sherlock figured that he'd better go investigate. With one last glance to the counter—where the eyeball was sitting beside the scalpel he'd had poised over it moments ago—he left the kitchen and approached the steps that led up to John's bedroom.

Emma was pointing wide-eyed at a glob of something sitting on the fifth step up. Sherlock wondered why it hadn't been noticed sooner, and waved a hand in the air. "Oh, that," he said vaguely, turning slightly to go back to the dissection of the eyeball. "Don't touch it."

"Don't touch it!" She repeated, and then took a deep breath. "Okay. Don't touch it. How am I supposed to clean it up?"

Sherlock tossed a pair of latex gloves over his shoulder at her. He could dissect an eyeball without them and the small girl clearly was set on cleaning up the possibly toxic jam.


	6. Chapter 6

Words: 651

A/N: Hmmm….Rusty is more likely than not out of character here from the episode he was in—Asian F—and my excuse is this: He's younger, he's got Sherlock as a brother, this is an AU, and where'd he get his need to clean anyway? (The need to clean that he passed onto Emma in that flashback, you know?) I've decided that having Sherlock and Mycroft for siblings made him paranoid about germs etc, and this went on to manifest in Emma's OCD. Ehhh…

And c'mon, guys, I know you're reading. Please review? Reviews make me super happy. Like, up-and-down-dance-the-chicken-dance sort of happy. I'll dance the chicken dance for you guys if you wish me to, for reviews.

Going once, going twice…

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><p>There was a sharp knock at the door as Sherlock pivoted on his heel back towards Emma, who had shrieked that he'd '<em>been touching that eyeball with these gloves!<em>' and that she wouldn't dare to use them.

"John, you don't need to knock," He yelled. Locking his grey eyes on his niece, he said, "If you won't use the gloves then you won't clean up—" he paused a moment, then waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the steps. "—that."

The door creaked open. Sherlock didn't bother to turn, sure that it was John.

"Good, did you get her fruit?" He asked, "Because I don't see the—"

"Sherlock."

Sherlock turned, frowning immediately. "You aren't John." He said bluntly.

Rusty wasn't listening. He was shifting foot to foot, glancing about the space of the flat, the partially cleaned space with newly shining surfaces and clutter shoved in the corners where it hadn't been before. Instead of replying to Sherlock's statement—and slight dismissal—Rusty said, sounding a bit anxious— "You see, this is why we never let Emma stay with you, you just don't keep your living space sanitary."

Sherlock scowled at his half-brother. "You don't—"

"And dad always wondered why I was always cleaning things. It was always your mess as was cleaning."

Sherlock started haughtily, "I never asked for you to—"

"Nobody would have cleaned it if I hadn't!" Rusty snapped. "And now you're making my daughter do it as well!" He'd never seen this happen before—that is, he had never seen Sherlock attempting in aiding the cleaning nor had he seen Sherlock requesting the help of another person. Of course he had known that Sherlock was off the deep end—he'd lived with him the summers half of his life, America with his mother for the rest of the time—and had been five when Sherlock had been born. That disregard for space and cleanliness had never exactly settled right with Rusty.

"Actually—" Emma spoke up, voice wavering a little.

Rusty cut her off with a snapping, "Emma, come along, the train goes in forty minutes." He didn't want to deal with his younger brother any longer than absolutely necessary, which was precisely why Emma had gone to Sherlock only as a last resort while Rose had been panicking about being late to the conference and there was nothing to do with their daughter.

Rusty scowled at his brother. His brother scowled back. Emma hopped carefully from the couch where she'd been idly polishing a glass while chewing on her lip.

"Bye Uncle Sherlock," Said Emma, looking grateful to be leaving (Rusty noted this triumphantly and Sherlock huffed, crossing his arms.) She turned her face to Rusty as she grabbed his hand. "Dad, why can we visit Uncle Sherlock and Uncle John again?"

Rusty turned sharply to his younger brother, eyebrows quickly drawing together, as if they were two particularly strong magnets. "Who is this _Uncle John_, Sherlock?"

Before Sherlock could reply, the sound of footsteps drifted from the steps through the open doorway and John peered in. "I believe that would be me," He said pleasantly. "You're Rusty, then?"

Rusty looked disgruntled. "Why did my daughter just call you _uncle_?"

John gave a helpless shrug. "Sherlock and I are just friends and flat mates," he explained in the weary way that showed how often he had explained this. "I help him pay the rent."

Rusty sent a sharp look to his brother. Sherlock needed no help paying the rent, and from John's expression, John knew this as well: Sherlock, Mycroft and Rusty himself all came from lines of rather rich people in high class circles.

John had turned to Emma. "Dear, I got you some strawberries, but I see you're leaving. Why don't I just wash them for you and then you and your dad can be on your way?


	7. Chapter 7

Words: 189

A/N: And here it ends! There'll be a sequel soon. Ish. And I say soonish because I'm horrible about being timely about these things, not to mention my life is busy and I've got things on my list of a higher priority than writing fanfiction.

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><p>The flat fell silent. John glanced around; it was still only halfway clean. And judging by the way that Sherlock had dropped himself unceremoniously onto the couch the way he had, he had no intention of carrying on the cleaning that Ema had insisted on starting.<p>

As it was, John sighed. He dropped the strawberry leafs into the garbage and washed his hands. He thought that it would be better to not leave the job half done, but he wouldn't be able to accomplish anything more than a dent all alone. He couldn't possibly ask Mrs. Hudson for assistance—she was their housekeeper, after all, as she was so fond of reminding them. John wasn't even sure if she was home at the moment or not.

Maybe he would be able to get Sherlock to help? Eyeing a petri dish balanced precariously atop a stack of soapy dishes beside the sink, John wondered what sort of blackmail and threats would be adequate t getting him to clean. He sure didn't have the same pull over Sherlock the way the man's family did.

Well. It would be a long weekend.


End file.
